Something More (15 page)

“I'll see you in a bit,” she told Ima Jane and started toward the front door.

“No hurry.” Ima Jane smiled with assurance and busied herself with gathering the dirty coffee cups off the table.

“Where's she goin'?” Griff asked when Ima Jane deposited the cups in the dish cart.

“Who? Oh, you mean Angie.” She glanced at the door now closing behind the redhead. “She's just going to her camper. She wanted to shower and change before supper, and I convinced her to use the bathroom upstairs.” Ima Jane paused, the line of her mouth tightening in faint disapproval. “I tried to talk her into sleeping in our spare bedroom tonight, but she insists on staying in the camper. Maybe if
you
said something to her, Griff. I just don't think it's safe for her to be alone in that camper, not after the break-in.”

“She's not goin' to listen to me,” Griff replied.

“She might. We have to try,” she insisted.

“I'll try, but she's goin' to be just as safe one place as another.”

Ima Jane stared at him in disbelief. “How can you say that after what happened this afternoon?”

“Look.” He leveled his gaze at her, forcing Ima Jane to meet it. “Nobody is goin' to bother breakin' into that camper again—not once the word gets out that there's nothin' in Wilson's letter but the ramblings of a condemned man.”

“But I thought—” Tobe began, thoroughly confused.

“I suggest you do some more thinkin' and less talkin',” Fargo told him, with a warning glance.

Tobe still didn't understand, but he fell silent just the same and took a drink of the beer Griff set in front of him, irritated at the way people always treated him like a dumb kid.

T
he setting sun's golden rays fanned over the western sky, tinting the edges of the scattered clouds. Black smoke poured from the semi's diesel stack as it roared along the highway, chased by its own giant shadow.

When the town of Glory hove into view, the trucker geared down and glanced at the old geezer slouched against the passenger door. He'd picked the guy up about ten miles back, hoping for some conversation, but beyond stating his destination, the old man hadn't said two words, just sat there staring out the window, clicking his false teeth together.

“That's Glory up ahead,” the trucker said loudly, just in case the guy was deaf. He received a nod for an answer and tried again. “Want me to drop you off at the Rimrock?”

“Nope. Let me out on the other side a town.” His mouth barely opened when he talked. As loose as those dentures sounded, the trucker figured they'd fall out if the old man opened his mouth any wider. Maybe in his shoes he wouldn't be so talkative either, he decided.

The highway went straight through the center of town. The mostly abandoned buildings in the block-and-a-half-long business district blanketed the thoroughfare in shadow. The semi rumbled through it at a slower speed than usual, then rolled to a jerky stop at the corner of the last cross street, brakes squealing and grabbing.

“Here you are.” The cab vibrated with the suppressed power of the idling engine.

Without so much as a “thanks for the ride,” the old man climbed down from the truck, exhibiting surprising spryness for his advanced years. Curious as to his destination, the trucker watched the reflection in the side mirror. But the old man disappeared from sight almost instantly.

Air brakes whooshed and hissed an accompaniment to the grinding of gears as Saddlebags ducked into an alleyway nearly overgrown with weeds. He scurried down it, keeping to the deep shadows. “Fool's errand, that's what this is,” he grumbled to himself. “It's a long walk back if' n you can't bum a ride off someone. An' what for? Nothing, that's what for.”

The aroma of fried chicken drifted to him before he reached the rear of the Rimrock. He grinned when he saw the back door to the kitchen standing open. He stole close to it, ignoring the flies that swarmed against its screen door, tormented by all the food on the other side of the wire mesh.

Inside the kitchen, an aproned Griff stepped to the charcoal grill and Saddlebags heard the hiss and sizzle of a steak being turned. He tried to remember the last time he'd chewed a piece of meat, but his memory wasn't that good, and the day was too long ago to recall.

Heat wafted through the screen door, stirred by the oscillating fan whirring at high speed near the grill. Shifting to scan every corner of the kitchen, Saddlebags saw that Griff was its only occupant. He settled back to wait, confident that his vigil would be rewarded.

Sure enough, not five minutes later, Ima Jane pushed through the swinging door and entered the kitchen. Immediately Saddlebags stepped closer to the screen door and tapped on its wooden frame.

Startled, Ima Jane turned and stared in openmouthed surprise when she recognized him. Recovering, she said quickly, “Griff, it's Saddlebags.”

She hurried to the screen door and pushed it open, her smile bright with a welcome that failed to disguise her curiosity.

“I didn't expect to see you. Come on in. I'll bet you're hungry.” Then she called over her shoulder, “Griff, fix Saddlebags a plate of your beef and noodles.”

His hesitation was slight. It was information Saddlebags wanted, not food, but he wasn't fool enough to pass up a free meal. He followed her inside and let himself be led to the break table in the corner. By the time he sat down, Griff arrived with a plate mounded with homemade egg noodles in a rich brown gravy dotted with small chunks of tender beef.

Ima Jane produced a set of silverware and a glass of milk, then sank into the chair on his left. “When did you get into town?”

“Just now.” He shoveled some noodles into his mouth. They almost dissolved on contact. “Who was that redhead with McCallister today?”

He felt, rather than saw, her eyes sharpen on him. “That was Angie Sommers. Luke mentioned they had seen you.”

“Sommers.” He rolled the name through his mind and came up empty. “Never heard it.”

“I don't imagine you have. She only arrived yesterday from Iowa.”

“Iowa.” He shoveled in another mouthful of food, confident that the single-word response would be enough to prime Ima Jane's pump. Whatever information she had about the redhead, Saddlebags knew she would spill it.

“Yes, it turns out that it was her grandfather's body they found on the Ten Bar. His name was Henry Wilson. I'm sure you've heard of him. He was the grandson of Ike Wilson, the outlaw—the one who came here years ago to search for the gold.”

“Heard of him.” Saddlebags tore off a chunk of bread and sopped it in the noodle gravy. “Before my time, though.”

“We've been trying to remember if you came one year later or two.”

“Can't recall.” He dismissed the subject with a lift of his bony shoulders and never looked up from his plate. “Been too long.”

Disappointed that she hadn't succeeded in eliciting a more precise answer, Ima Jane sighed. “I suppose it has.”

“Came t' claim the body, did she?” Gravy dripped on his matted beard when he jammed the sodden bread chunk in his mouth. But he didn't bother to wipe at it. Whatever table manners he'd learned, he had abandoned them long ago.

Ima Jane nodded. “She's thinking about taking his remains back to Iowa so he can be buried next to his wife.”

“No point.” His stomach was full, but he continued to stuff the food in his mouth. It was a common practice of primitive man to gorge when there was plenty. It improved the chances of survival during times of want. “They're dead. They ain't gonna know it.”

“I swear you men have no romance in your souls,” she declared, with an amused but despairing shake of her head. “I grant you it's more symbolic than anything else, but it seems fitting that they would be reunited again after all these years.”

He grunted a response and washed down the mouthful of noodles with a swallow of milk, some of it dribbling from his mouth corners.

“I'm glad Luke saw you at the ranch this afternoon.” The statement seemed to come from out of the blue.

But it was the tone of her voice that caught Saddlebags's ear. It was one that signaled the pump needed a bit more priming for the well to keep flowing.

“Why?” He pushed the word through the fast-dissolving noodles in his mouth.

“Because somebody broke into Angie's camper while she was at the ranch. Fortunately nothing was taken.” Her gaze was fastened on him in avid anticipation of his reaction. “But we're all convinced that whoever broke into it was looking for the letter.”

“Letter?” Before he could stop himself, he shot her a quick look.

Her smile was smug with satisfaction. “Yes. The one Ike Wilson wrote to his wife before he was hung. The one everyone thinks might have clues to the gold's location.”

“She brought it with her?” He scooped up more noodles, using a piece of bread to push them onto the spoon, while he pondered the many implications of that.

“A copy of it. She left the original at home. She says it has historical value completely apart from the missing gold,” Ima Jane explained, much too casually. “Which is just as well because it's worthless otherwise.”

“You've read it?”

“She showed it to all of us earlier. And believe me, there's nothing in it that indicates where the gold is.”

“Why you tellin' me that? Think I'm gonna knock her over the head and steal it?” He threw her a cold and ugly look.

She recoiled instinctively. “I never said that.”

He cackled at her reaction. “Scared ya, huh?”

“Of course not,” she denied, still a little flustered.

“Not to worry. That letter can't tell me nothin' I don't already know.” He talked through the food in his mouth, his loose dentures clicking and clacking.

He briefly wished he had taken out his teeth before he'd started eating. As soft as these noodles were, he could have easily gummed them.

“How can you be so positive of that when you haven't seen the letter yourself?” Ima Jane wondered with a mixture of curiosity and vague suspicion.

“Stands t' reason.” He tipped the milk glass to his mouth and flushed the food into his stomach.

“How?”

“ 'Cause folks claim her grandfather had a copy o' that letter, an' he never found the gold.”

“I wonder what happened to his copy,” Ima Jane murmured. “It wasn't among the things they recovered with the body.”

“That a fact?” There wasn't much more than two large bites of food left on the plate. As much as he hated to leave it, Saddlebags had the feeling that if he tried to force it down, his stomach would bust open. He pushed the food back and laid a hand across his miserably full belly.

Rising from her chair, Ima Jane reached for his plate. “How about a slice of Griff's apple pie with some homemade ice cream?”

He shook his head in refusal just as Griff shouted from the grill area, “Your order's up.”

“Be right there,” she called back, then glanced at Saddlebags. “You sit here and rest. As soon as I get this order delivered, I'll pack you up some food to take with you.”

He waited until Ima Jane had backed through the swinging door, balancing the serving tray with its food order on one arm. Then he went to work hauling out the kitchen trash. Nobody was ever going to say he took charity. He worked for anything he got.

Griff watched him but never said a word. As soon as he plated up the last food order, Griff went to work up a bag of nonperishable items: dried beans; potatoes; flour; coffee; powdered milk; and an assortment of canned meat, vegetables, and fruit. As always, once it was all packed, he set it outside the back door.

Saddlebags had disappeared after emptying the trash, but Griff knew he'd be back to sweep up after they closed for the night. That was the usual routine.

 

 

The white cue ball struck the point of the triangular formation with explosive force, sending the first ball crashing into the rest, scattering them over the felt-covered slate. Two balls spiraled into the pockets, landing with a thud.

Flushed with the success of his break shot, Tobe swaggered over to the corner of the pool table and rubbed the chalk over the tip of his cue stick. He grinned at the onlooking Fargo. “I told you this was gonna be my game.”

“We'll see.” With eyebrows beetling in concentration, Fargo studied the ball layout.

With the last order from the kitchen delivered to its table, Ima Jane made a swing by the billiard area. “Do either of you need another beer?”

“I've gotta win some of my money back from this one-armed hustler first,” Tobe told her when Fargo shook his head in refusal.

“Good luck.” Leaving them, Ima Jane made her way to Angie's table. “Do you need a refill on that iced tea?”

“I don't think so, thanks,” Angie refused, then turned to the young girl sitting with her. “How about you, Dulcie? Would you like another Coke?”

Dulcie answered with a mute shake of her head, then popped another ice cube into her mouth and crunched noisily on it.

“In that case, I'll join you two.” Ima Jane pulled out a chair and sat down at their table, taking advantage of the fact that business, as usual, was slow on a Sunday night. Not counting Angie, Fargo, Tobe, and Dulcie, there hadn't been more than a half dozen customers in. Saddlebags made seven, but Ima Jane didn't consider him a customer. “You'll never guess who showed up at the back door a while ago. Saddlebags.” She volunteered the answer. “Luke told you all about him, didn't he?”

Angie nodded. “He's the old man who's been looking for the gold.”

“That's him,” Ima Jane confirmed. “And he was very curious about you—and what you were doing out there. Of course, I explained who you were and your reason for coming. Then something interesting happened.”

“What?” she asked, her curiosity aroused.

“When I mentioned that you had shown us the letter and indicated that it contained no useful information about the gold's hiding place, he acted as if he had known that all along. Which tells me that somehow, someway, he got his hands on the copy your grandfather brought with him.”

“It's possible,” Angie agreed. “Almost none of my grandfather's things were recovered with the body.”

“I'll bet you anything that Saddlebags found them and kept them for himself. Can't you just imagine how excited he must have been when he discovered that letter among his things? And how disappointed he was afterward?”

“Luke mentioned that he's been searching for years,” Angie recalled idly.

“He's grown old searching for it. If that doesn't prove how futile looking is, nothing will,” Ima Jane declared.

“You're probably right.” But Angie was convinced she had discovered a vital key.

“I know I am,” Ima Jane insisted, then glanced at the front door, distracted by another thought. “I wonder where Luke is tonight.”

“He said he had chores to do at the ranch.”

“Just the same, he's usually here on Sunday nights unless they're in the middle of calving, haying, or roundup. It's not like him to stay at the ranch alone.” Her statement had the ring of knowledge.